Paul’s. High,

narrow windows, cut deeply into the wall, stood in a row upon the

other side; an enormous open fireplace of burning logs was on his

right; thick tapestries hung from the ceiling to the floor of stone;

and in the centre of the chamber was a massive table of dark, shining

wood, great chairs with carved stiff backs set here and there beside

it. And in the biggest of these throne-like chairs there sat a figure

looking at him gravely——the figure of an old, old man.

Yet there was no surprise in the boy’s fast-beating heart; there

was a thrill of pleasure and excitement only, a feeling of

satisfaction. He had known quite well the figure would be there, known

also it would look like this exactly. He stepped forward on to the

floor of stone without a trace of fear or trembling, holding the

precious cane in two hands now before him, as though to present it to

its owner. He felt proud and pleased. He had run risks for this.

And the figure rose quietly to meet him, advancing in a stately

manner over the hard stone floor. The eyes looked gravely, sweetly

down at him, the aquiline nose stood out. Tim knew him perfectly: the

knee-breeches of shining satin, the gleaming buckles on the shoes, the

neat dark stockings, the lace and ruffles about neck and wrists, the

coloured waistcoat opening so widely— all the details of the picture

over father’s mantelpiece, where it hung between two Crimean bayonets,

were reproduced in life before his eyes at last. Only the polished cane

with the ivory handle was not there.

Tim went three steps nearer to the advancing figure and held out

both his hands with the cane laid crosswise on them.

“I’ve brought it, Grandfather,” he said, in a faint but clear and

steady tone; “here it is.”

And the other stooped a little, put out three fingers half

concealed by falling lace, and took it by the ivory handle. He made a

courtly bow to Tim. He smiled, hut though there was pleasure, it was a

grave, sad smile. He spoke then: the voice was slow and very deep.

There was a delicate softness in it, the suave politeness of an older

day.

“Thank you,” he said; “I value it. It was given to me by my

grandfather. I forgot it when I—”

His voice grew indistinct a little.

“Yes?” said Tim.

“When I—left,” the old gentleman repeated.

“Oh,” said Tim, thinking how beautiful and kind the gracious figure

was.

The old man ran his slender fingers carefully along the cane,

feeling the polished surface with satisfaction. He lingered specially

over the smoothness of the ivory handle. He was evidently very

pleased.

“I was not quite myself—er—at the moment,” he went on gently; “my

memory failed me somewhat.” He sighed, as though an immense relief was

in him.

“I forget things, too—sometimes,” Tim mentioned sympathetically.

He simply loved his grandfather.